


Promise

by pkmnshippings



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis is damaged, Based on 1x04, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meeting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porthos is a caring sweetheart, Post massacre, Short One Shot, Some mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pkmnshippings/pseuds/pkmnshippings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off a prompt received on Tumblr: "Porthos meeting Aramis for the first time when he finds him wounded, in the forest, after the massacre."</p>
<p>Porthos' first mission with the Musketeers is to retrieve the bodies of the men killed in Savoy, and that's when he first meets the lone survivor, with the striking eyes and the emotional wreckage Porthos vows to fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for tumblr user ara-ara-mis who gave me the prompt. I thought it was an interesting take on the massacre and gave it a shot.  
> Hope you enjoy it!

Porthos had not been a musketeer for long when he was called upon by Captain Treville to accompany a group of men, sent to retrieve the bodies of twenty dead musketeers from a failed training exercise in Savoy.

And Porthos was certainly no stranger to death, he had seen dead bodies before in the past, but the scene that greeted him when they arrived was nothing like he had ever witnessed before.

Twenty men, now reduced to twenty rotting corpses, were lying scattered on the forest floor, slumped skewered against trees, with necks and stomachs slashed open, blood in rivulets staining their uniforms. Some were face down, half buried in the dirt, but many had their eyes open, glassy and seeing nothing, never to see anything again, mouths still open in silent screams.

Porthos felt sick.

But he could hardly show himself to be weak to the other recruits. And besides, he had a duty- yes, to be a musketeer meant to live up to your duties- to these fallen men to carefully move their bodies, arrange their limbs into a more comfortable position, to silently wish their families all the best for the future. There was nothing more he could do for any of them.

That was when Porthos heard the rustling.

It was a slight noise, and a quick glance around told Porthos that he was the only one to have heard it. With his hand resting against his sword hilt, ready to defend himself against any possible opponents, Porthos crept around the trees in search of the source of the noise.

He would never have expected, there in that damned forest filled with pain and grief and death, to find someone alive.

But alive the man was, though he was a sorry excuse for it. A bandage stretched over a wound across his head, and he was slumped against a tree looking defeated and so lost in a nightmare that Porthos was almost afraid to move any closer, for fear of making his turmoil worse.

And yet he found himself on his knees before the man anyway, and now that he was closer he could see the dark, striking eyes and vague smiling lines that hinted of a man who was usually full of life, who had a soul so big it would pull you in and take you under before you even had a chance to defend yourself. Yes, it was clear that the man had not been a dull and lazy companion.

But that was not what was present before Porthos now.

All that was left of this man was a shell, frightened and broken and empty. Whatever had happened here would never leave him; it would haunt his days and nights for many years to follow. There was a hollow detachment wrought over the man’s remarkable features, and Porthos knew enough to recognise that agony and a harsh ache would take its place as soon as the man came around from whatever stupor he had fallen into.

As carefully as he could, Porthos slid one of his hands around the man to rest it against the small of his back, gently pulling the man into a more comfortable upright position. He jolted slightly, and Porthos shushed him soothingly, almost surprised at his own softness. 

“It’s alright,” Porthos murmured, though the man neither relaxed nor showed any sign that he had even heard the words. “What’s your name?”

For a moment, silence was the only response Porthos received, and he began to worry that the man’s head injury was far worse than it seemed. Eventually, however, the man replied, in a shaking, hoarse voice that sounded as devoid of emotion as his eyes looked. 

“Aramis.”

Porthos felt something inside of him break slightly in what he realised was relief, for the man had answered him, he wasn’t permanently damaged, he was going to be alright. Aramis…so the name of this survivor was Aramis. Porthos liked the feel of the name on his tongue, and placed his hand more firmly on the man’s back.

“Aramis…I’m Porthos. We’re here to take you home.”

Aramis did not move, his eyes were still fixed on a distant point in the forest and had not once focused on Porthos. It seemed to take him longer this time to register what had been said, but when he did, he frowned, hands moving independently to clutch at Porthos’ jacket.

“Everyone…” he began, voice a choking whimper, “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

“I know,” Porthos said quietly. He made no attempt to remove Aramis’ hands from his clothes, instead allowing him whatever comfort he could find.

Aramis began to shake his head rhythmically back and forth, still staring into the forest with that horrible, nightmarish look in his eyes. “No…I don’t deserve to go home. I should be dead with the others.”

Porthos breathed out heavily, putting his free hand firmly onto Aramis’ shoulder. “Don’t wish yourself death.” 

Aramis shuddered violently, still shaking his head. “I should be dead! I…I couldn’t save any of them.”

This time, Porthos remained silent for a while, not knowing what to say to make Aramis feel better. The man was trapped in guilt that only he would be able to find the way out of, though Porthos was already making a resolve to himself that he would be there for every step of the way until he did.

“It’s not your fault,” Porthos whispered finally, assuredly. “Now let’s take you home.”

But Aramis slumped forwards then, head falling to rest in the crook of Porthos’ neck. “Marsac…” he breathed, and then he fell silent.

Porthos felt his heart drop, panic setting in at the sight of the body now lying prone against his. He shook Aramis’ shoulder vigorously, calling his name, but the man didn’t stir. And Porthos cursed himself inwardly for not checking Aramis over for injuries sooner, because what was he to do if something truly harmful had happened to him? 

“Aramis,” Porthos called, urgency fierce in his voice. This man, this man who had so obviously once been full of life, now bound in guilt, he couldn’t die. Porthos wasn’t going to let him die. He had already made the resolve that he would help the man recover, and he most certainly was not going to lose to that resolve so quickly. 

Porthos screamed himself hoarse in order to get the attention of the other men who had come with him to retrieve the bodies. And even as Aramis was lifted away from him, Porthos could not bear to leave the man’s side, clutching forcefully to his hand and never taking his eyes away.

He had made a promise. He was going to keep it.

He would see the life returned to Aramis, even if it cost him his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
